


All The Planes We Flew

by i_kinda_like_writing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Child Murder, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 19:32:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4799597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_kinda_like_writing/pseuds/i_kinda_like_writing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man with the wings, Sam Wilson, is the first to find him. If Bucky’d had money to bet on it, he wouldn’t have put it on Wilson, but there he is, standing about five feet away in the middle of the abandoned HYDRA safe house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All The Planes We Flew

**Author's Note:**

> After re-watching CA:TWS for the umpteenth time, I realized how similar the Bucky-Steve relationship was to the Riley-Sam relationship (that is, in canon). So this is my interpretation of how Sam would get Bucky to come home. Hope you enjoy :)  
> The title is from See You Soon by Wiz Khalifa.

The man with the wings, Sam Wilson, is the first to find him. If Bucky’d had money to bet on it, he wouldn’t have put it on Wilson, but there he is, standing about five feet away in the middle of the abandoned HYDRA safe house. Wilson doesn’t have the training to find him, can’t have the contacts Natasha has or the determination Steve does. He shouldn’t be here, at least not now.

His posture says casual but there’s a hard look in his eyes that mean he’s got something to say and he’s not leaving until he does. Bucky doesn’t really want to hear it, as it’s probably going to be telling him to go back to Steve, but he also doesn’t want to kill Wilson and that seems to be the only option if he won’t listen to what the guy has to say. Wanting hasn’t really affected what’s happened to him the past 70 years, so he can handle letting something go on against his will if it means getting Wilson to leave afterwards.

Bucky sits up from the pile of dingy blankets and torn up mattress he’s been sleeping on for the past three nights. Sleeping being used loosely in this case. During the day, he’s bombarded with memories from before the war, sometimes during it, but most of them of 30s Brooklyn with a smaller Steve. Those are nice, Bucky treasures those. But the minute he closes his eyes it’s like a switch is turned; good memories turn to bad, soft touches turn into punches, friends and family turn into targets. For the time he’s been here, he’s probably slept a combined total of four hours. Whatever drug they pumped him full of makes it so he doesn’t need that much sleep, so he can survive at least a week with the schedule he’s on now.

Wilson jumps a little when Bucky moves, having thought him asleep. It’s probably because Bucky is always very still, had it beaten into him that movement means death, so even when he’s awake it can look like he’s not. Wilson tries to school his posture back into the casual slouch it was before, but his shoulders are too tense and his feet are too squared. He hasn’t been trained on how to control his reactions. Once again, Bucky wonders how it was Wilson that found him first.

“Hey,” it comes out scratchy so Wilson clears his throat. “We need to talk.” Bucky scrubs a hand through his hair; shorter than when Wilson last saw it, but still long enough to fall in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I’m not the best at conversation.” The corner of Wilson’s mouth twitches as if he wants to smile, but he keeps his lips in a straight, firm line. Bucky mentally praises him.

“I only need you to listen.” Bucky narrows his eyes, leaning back against the graffiti-covered wall.

“And if I don’t wanna?” The Brooklyn accent has been slowly coming back to him along with the memories, and he can neither force it nor hinder it, so he lets it do as it wants. Wilson shrugs, his shoulders moving under a heavy moss green jacket that could easily conceal weapons. Despite the fact that last time they met, Bucky threw him off a helicarrier, he doesn’t think Wilson is here to hurt him.

“You can leave.” Wilson says, faux easiness in his voice. “But I really think you should stay.” There’s a gun under his pillow and a knife under his shirt; he could get out of this easily. But Bucky thinks he owes it Wilson to at least listen to what he has to say, so he nods once and waits. Wilson shoves his hands in his pockets, frowning for a minute, and Bucky loses his patience.

“Let’s do this before my hundredth birthday.” It’s only two years away. Wilson rolls his eyes.

“You need to let Steve find you. Or come back to him, whatever. You just need to be with Steve.” It’s probably not as put together as Wilson wants it to be, but it gets his point across well enough. Bucky tries to hold back a sigh.

“That’s it?” Wilson’s eyes harden.

“ _That’s it_? Have you seen him?” Bucky shakes his head; seeing Steve would make staying away too hard. “He’s killing himself trying to find you. He hasn’t slept a full night in weeks, he’s pouring over every inch of information he has on you a hundred times, and he’s been slow during fights. He nearly got stabbed in the neck last week.” Bucky grimaces at that.

“Tell him to stop. Tell him I don’t want to be found.”

“I’ve _tried_ that.” Wilson’s façade finally cracks and he growls out the words. “He won’t give up until he finds you, or worse, kills himself in the process. He needs you and all you’ve been doing is run away.” Bucky glances at his metal fingers, curling them and letting them unfold.

“You’re wrong,” he says idly, eyes intent on the metal plating. “He hasn’t needed me in over seventy years.”

“You’re both so thick!” Wilson grumbles, turning towards the wall as his fists clench in his jacket. “You know what he did right? After you died?” Bucky makes a vaguely negative noise. “He killed himself.” Bucky raises his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“He lowered the plane into the Arctic.” Wilson turns back to him, eyes pleading.

“He could’ve jumped, grabbed a parachute. There was no good reason for him to still be on that plane when it crashed. He _chose_ to die,” Wilson takes a step forward and Bucky’s hand automatically reaches for his knife. “Because you weren’t there to live with him.” Bucky forces his hand to relax against the blankets.

“I’m different than I was then.” He says, meaning it. He might have James Buchanan Barnes’ memories, sometimes his snark and sometimes his voice, but there is no way he can ever be that person again, not with the things he’s done. Wilson’s eyes soften a little.

“He doesn’t care. He just wants you, the person you are now.” Bucky’s jaw clenches and he tries not to spit out his words.

“I’m not a person. I’m a weapon.” Wilson pauses for a moment, straightening up, thinking with gears turning behind his eyes. After a few long minutes with Bucky’s mind playing over every scream, every order, every gunshot, Wilson speaks.

“What was the worst thing they made you do?” His wording is careful, Bucky notices, trying to make sure that it doesn’t sound like Bucky was the one to do this. He’s not so broken that he thinks he’s responsible for all the things he’s done, but he knows he’s still done them and the memory of it alone is enough to eat him up inside.

“There was a girl,” his voice chokes over the words as he drifts back to the night, memories coming like dreams he has to relive instead of movies to watch. “Maybe seven years old. Brown hair in ponytails, in a nightgown in the middle of the night, sitting on a swing set. I had just killed these two roommates in the house next to hers, they had a cure for some disease or something, and I was cutting through her backyard when she saw me.” He stares down at his flesh hand, curling it tight enough for his nails to dig into his palm. “I should’ve been more careful, but this was one of my first missions; I wasn’t used to it yet, being a ghost.” His metal hand curls too, a mechanical whirring accompanying it. “There were to be no witnesses.”

The silence digests the words he just spoke, letting them curl around him and squeeze like a snake trying to kill him. She had been so curious, not scared, as he walked over to her, big brown eyes blinking at him as he crunched the grass beneath his boots. She had been barefoot, toes curling into the earth as she tilted her head at him, wondering who he was, no fear in her eyes. It wasn’t until his knife slid over her throat that she began to scream, and by then it was too late. Seven years old.

“How does it make you feel?” Wilson’s voice is quiet and calm, as if he’s not standing in front of a child killer.

“Fucking awful, whaddya think?” His throat scratches over the words. If Steve knew, if he knew what Bucky’s done, would he still be trying to find him?

“I didn’t know machines had emotions.” Bucky looks up, glaring at Wilson, a low growl making its way out of his chest.

“So maybe I’m not a machine, but I’m a horrible, screwed up person and Steve doesn’t need that on top of everything else.” Wilson looks frustrated and vaguely annoyed, posture reading defeat, but his eyes still stubborn. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, fiddling with his fingers and turning his head to stare down at them. Bad move, Wilson, Bucky thinks to himself; never take your eyes off the brainwashed assassin.

“I was in the Armed Forces, a paratrooper.” He’s gearing up to say something big, Bucky can tell by the quietly contained emotion in his voice. However, Bucky already read Wilson’s files, so he knows this information and doesn’t feel very intrigued.

“I know,” Bucky tells him, because he might as well let Wilson know that he’s read about him. Wilson nods, tilting his head a little to the side as he considers his clasped hands.

“I had a partner, a best friend of my own. Lot like you and Cap,” Wilson chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head at some bitter joke only he knows. “We were on a mission when an RPG hit Riley. I couldn’t do anything but watch as he fell out of the sky. We found his body later that week, so he’s not coming back, but not a day goes by that I don’t wish he was here with me.” A flash of falling hits Bucky, staring up at a terrified looking Steve that just got smaller and smaller with the seconds. How must’ve he have felt, watching Bucky fall to his death?

“Even if he came back broken?” Bucky’s voice is unusually rough, the memory hurting more than he thought.

“Especially then. He’d need me then more than ever.” Quiet resumes, covering them like a blanket this time instead of smothering them. Bucky thinks over what’s been said, what his reasons are and why they’re bullshit. Finally, he sighs.

“He really almost got stabbed? In the neck?” He looks up to see Wilson with the hint of a grin on his face.

“Yeah,” his eyes shine, “almost.” Bucky nods, slumping back against the wall once again.

“I’ll be there within the week. Keep him here for a little. We don’t tell him about this.” Wilson nods, taking a short step back.

“Thank you.” Bucky nods but doesn’t respond and watches Wilson’s, Sam’s, retreating back as he goes. Mentally, Bucky thanks whatever’s up in the sky making all this shit happen that Steve’s got someone like Sam Wilson.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Leave a kudo if you think I deserve it and a comment on what you thought :)


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